Japanese
by fishingfortheblues
Summary: 1946. There would be no apologies today, no tears, and if either touched the other, it would be only to strangle him. By now, it would be foolish to point fingers when they were each villains and victims in their own right, but they were each too proud to do anything else. Historical, no romance. Complete.


The door was made of steel, a heavy metal that was better suited for a prison than a small-town hospital. A clean coat of paint, blue like a robin's egg, plated the surface without so much as a smudge. The staff might have thought that the new color was more inviting than the raw metal, but the nurses, like ghosts in their white caps and gowns, averted their eyes as they passed and quickened their step.

His fingers tugged at the knot of his necktie, trying not to strangle himself on it as he took a dry swallow. Grabbing ahold of the door handle, he pushed down, even though he knew it to be locked. Sure enough, it stopped at a crooked angle and wouldn't budge any further, as if it was never meant to be opened. A part of him, a part that feared the door being unsecure, felt relief. He jerked his hand away, his skin prickling like it had been burned.

The sound of approaching shoes clacked against the bleached tile. It was a pair of Mary Jane's, strapped to the feet of a nurse. She was holding something between her hands and staring straight at her toes, his bodyguard on her heels. With his mind so scrambled by his own turbulent thoughts, America hadn't even noticed that he had been left on his own, cemented to the floor by the weight of his misgivings.

"Sir." The stout man, dressed up in a double-breasted suit jacket and ruddy-faced, greeted him with a sharp salute. He did well not to address him by name within earshot of the hospital staff. Even his assumed human name wasn't one he wanted tossed around between nosey nurses. They were sure to know that they were deliberately being left in the dark; the more anonymity he held, the better.

America could not bring himself to return the salute. He looked away and slid his trembling hands into the front pockets of his flight jacket. A metallic jingle reached his ears, and he realized that it had been a ring of keys that the nurse had been clutching. Her fingers singled out a silver key and inserted it into the lock. She pushed a stray, tight curl of hair into her white cap, her eyes flicking to look at him for the first time.

"This ward needs t' be locked at all times, so I got t' close you in. Press the call button when y'all are done and someone'll be down to fetch yous." The nurse turned the key, and the lock clicked. His heart jumped into his throat.

"You keep it locked...?" He repeated under his breath. She pulled the key out without acknowledging him and took a step back.

Now, there was nothing between him and the door, not even a lock.

He turned to give his bodyguard a sidelong glance, flashing a megawatt grin that didn't reach his eyes, white teeth gleaming even as the corners of his smile wavered. "This was a terrible idea." He let out an uncharacteristically high-pitched laugh and pushed his eyeglasses up to sit firmly on the eagle-like bridge of his nose.

The man acting as his escort pursed his lips, rolling his eyes at him. Taking a few steps forward, he leaned into his ear and mumbled in a low voice, precisely so that only the two of them would hear what he said. "Mr. America, with all due respect, I'm not your shrink. I'm here for your security, not moral support. Don't waste my time. Go in, or don't. Which is it going to be?"

America cowered, his shoulders sinking. The man nudged him forward with his elbow. With a stumble, he found himself uncomfortably close to the door. A metal box was pressed into his hands. Small dents sunk into the material under his clammy fingers as he gripped onto it.

His guard urged him on. "No one can do this for you. If you're going to face him, you have to do it yourself. It was _your_ idea, if I must remind you."

The nurse glanced between the two expectantly, brows furrowed.

The blood drained from his face. "You're going to make me go in alone?"

"What, you need me to hold your hand? You're a grown man, you can handle yourself." A waxy hand clapped his shoulder. "Don't worry, I'll stay within screaming distance. From what I heard, I imagine he couldn't try anything if he wanted to, though."

"That's not what I'm worried about—"

He glanced out of the corner of his eye to see that his escort had already wandered down the hall. His stomach dropped. The man's words hadn't exactly filled him with the confidence he needed.

The nurse, standing to the side of the door with her wrists crossed, cleared her throat. America turned to her with a start, having nearly forgotten her presence. The toe of her shoe lightly tapped the floor, and she tilted her head to the side, sleepy eyes regarding him with both curiosity and vexation.

A sigh slipped through his lips, scraping against his dry mouth.

He put his hand on the door handle and pushed it down. This time, there was no resistance. The door was freed from its frame with a click, easing open. He took a stride into the room, using his shoulder to shut it behind him.

Immediately after the door fit back into the wall, a click sounded, and he was closed in. Sweat beaded at his collar, but he struggled not to let his facial muscles betray his unease.

The air was stale, saturated with the sour smell of disinfectant. It singed his nostril hairs, and he could feel the sting in his lungs. Across from him, wide, paned glass windows cast a checkerboard of yellow, late afternoon sun across the floor. The door had opened into a small ward, six medical beds in all lined up on the left and the right like sardines. All were stripped of their bedding, flat mattresses laid bare on their wheeled frames. All, that is, except for one on the far end of the room. The curtain was drawn partway around the bed, leaving it open to the sunlight and sheltered from his view. Dusty oil paintings of daisies adorned the white walls, so faded and grey that they only served to make the area even lonelier than it already felt.

Maybe he would be asleep. It looked like no staff had entered the room recently. Part of him hoped as much.

The soles of his chunky shoes clapped against the floor as he crossed the room, and he cringed at the occasional squeak of rubber on tile. Any remaining hopes of discreetness or being able to silently change his mind and slip out unnoticed were dashed. If America hadn't given himself away opening the door—which was unlikely as it was, as he knew the man he had come to see to have an eerily acute sense of awareness—he certainly had now.

His feet led him to the linen curtain. He tucked the box he was holding under his elbow and grasped the fabric in one hand. Drawing a long breath into his lungs, he braced himself with a large, forced smile. With a tug, the curtain folded onto itself, neatly settling against the wall with a scrape of metal against metal.

He set his free hand on his hip, setting his broad shoulders apart. "Hey, Japan, old buddy!" He flinched at the screech of his own voice, laced with false enthusiasm, and immediately regretted speaking.

Vacant, half-moon shaped eyes stared coolly back at him, and he knew that his act had been as unconvincing as it sounded to his ears.

There were no wrinkles between the Nation's brows, no frown to be found on his lips. But the stiffness in his jaw and his unblinking eyelids reflected all the emotion the rest of his face concealed, and as drained as it was, he had a withering stare.

America's smile faltered, and his gaze skirted away. Exhaling through his teeth, he walked around the bed to the windows. A wooden end table was nestled beside the bed, no vase of flowers, chocolates, or colorful cards. The surface was devoid of anything except for a small pad of paper. With no pen in sight, even this seemed useless, but the corner of a rather official-looking envelope with a twenty-sen stamp stuck out from the unmarked pages. Curiosity pricked his mind, but he didn't dare snoop with its recipient there.

A metal stool was beside the table, sat in the corner on crooked legs. It screeched as he dragged it over by the window, metal groaning precariously as he sat down on it, his formerly over-confident posture slumped. He wriggled one of the legs with his foot, deciding that the stool would hold his weight, for now. Warm air rolled from the radiator under the window, pouring across the back of his legs as he slid aside a half-full jug of water and an empty glass that sat on the windowsill. He set the container in his hands down where they had once been.

Japan brushed a lock of hair, trimmed with precision, behind his ear and finally broke his uncharacteristic stare, eyes trailing from America to his lap, where the bed sheets pooled around his waist. A grimace graced his face as he pressed a hand to his side, where thick layers of bandages were visible through the paper-like, clinical blouse. Still, his back was straight and his posture exact.

America rubbed the nape of his neck, chewing at the inside of his cheek as he twisted tufts of butterscotch-blond hair between his fingers. Unable to look at the bed-ridden man for too long, he looked out past the frost-speckled glass. The skies were clear but pale, painting the landscape in shades of grey. The only color to be found was on the evergreens, occasionally present between trees that usually sprouted brightly colored leaves, but only bare branches in the winter. White smoke rose from stone chimneys like cigars, and a water tower was suspended over the quiet town by wooden posts. From where the window was angled, he couldn't very well see the ground, but once in a while there'd be a glimpse of a black car coasting along the ice-crusted roads.

"I... I thought it would be better if you woke up from your coma in a small town; privacy can be a little hard to come by, but it's a little easier to keep secrets from a few than from many." He chuckled nervously, and numbly wondered what he was talking to more: Japan or the suffocating tension in the room. "And God knows you could use some Southern hospitality..."

His words trailed off. He looked over at the bed, and wasn't sure if Japan had heard him at first. He did not look up at America's words, seemingly having dismissed his presence entirely. His eyes had closed, as if his visitor was unworthy of the slightest glance. America traced the pointed profile of his face for a moment, his eyes following the shape of his down-turned nose and tensed jaw for any reaction to his words.

In absence of one, he dropped his gaze, shoulders dropping. A gentle wind rustled the branches outside, a scraping against the windowpanes.

"Oklahoma said you've refused to eat for weeks. That the nurses had to put you back on the IV." He said at last, glancing at the tubes taped to Japan's wrist, tracing them back to a bag of fluid hung from a wheeled rack. "Said you nearly had a fit when the nurses wouldn't give you any rice. You scared them good. He seemed pretty offended, you know; he pulled a lot of strings to get them to serve you such nice food. Staples of Southern cuisine, not that you would know."

When he was met with nothing but silence, he glanced over his shoulder and frowned, crossing his arms over his chest.

"You're killing me, Japan." He sighed, pulling his jacket more tightly around him. Slouching over, he lowered his voice. "You had me going. I really thought you were my friend, you know. Now look at what you've done to yourself. You lost. The war, your empire... you lost it all. You should have given up with your _friends_ did. I didn't have any other choice."

Japan opened his eyes, nostrils flaring and his lips thinning to a tight line as a flash of fury washed over his face. Almost as quickly as it had come, it smoothly slipped away.

"Who are you trying to convince, America- _san_?" His voice, brittle and throaty, made the man in question snap his head up so quickly that something in his neck popped. "Me, or yourself?"

Stunned, he could only stare, mouth hanging open like a fish. His fingernails dug into his knees as his eyes flickered between Japan's tired ones. They showed his age, empty and worn, the weight of millennia behind them. War was still etched into the lines of his face. It occurred to him that it had always been there, so deep in his history that it had become part of him, and he had never taken the time to see it. America held his gaze for a long moment. This time, it was the other Nation who broke eye contact, and he made no attempt to maintain it.

"I guess we're not getting anywhere," he murmured with a sigh, his resolve waning. Rising from the stool, he took the metal box off the windowsill and held it out. "...Here. For you."

Japan regarded the container in his hands with skepticism. For one long moment, his heart leapt into his throat, and he thought the man would refuse.

Then, with a maddening slowness, he reached for it, taking it in two hands. America let go as if shocked.

The Nation placed the container on his lap, unfastening the metal clasps with a flick of his thumbs. He eased the top open, bit by bit. The lid fell open to its fullest as he clasped his hand over his mouth. His gaze was fixed to the box, blinking rapidly. A soft, choked noise slipped from his lips, muffled by his hand. A lump formed in America's throat, concerned that he would burst into sobs, but at last, the hand lowered from his mouth, and his eyes were dry.

Japan reached into the box, being careful of his IV lines. With great care, he lifted a wooden platter from the box with his fingers, balancing a ceramic bowl, its top, and an unremarkable pair of plain, bamboo chopsticks. One of the chopsticks began to roll off the board as he settled it onto his lap, but with swift movement of his hand, he caught it between his fingers and placed it back onto its stand.

America heard him let out a sigh as he folded his hands, almost like he was praying, his eyes longingly focused on the sight in front of him. He grasped the pearl knob on the bowl's lid and lifted it up. The dish was brimming with grains of cooked sticky rice. It was plain, and almost definitely gone cold, but if Japan minded, he didn't show it. A small smile brushed his face, but as soon as it appeared, it vanished, and America wasn't sure if he had seen it at all.

Japan cleared his throat. His voice was more defined now, hints of his Kyoto lilt returning. " _A-arigatō gozaimasu..._ "

For the first time that day, America found himself grinning without effort, pushing his eyeglasses up. His knowledge of Japanese left much to be desired, but those words he understood, loud and clear.


End file.
